The Hunted

In a world filled with threats, will instinct and resilience prevail against overwhelming odds?

I squeezed my body against the cold, rough surface, folding my arms and legs, my heart pounding in my chest. The world around me seemed impossibly vast, full of dangers I could scarcely comprehend. How long had I been running? How long had I been hiding? Time lost all meaning in this state of constant fear.

I can hear sounds not too far from my hiding spot, and I froze. He was here. The enemy. The one who had been pursuing me relentlessly. I could sense his presence, feel the vibrations of his movements through the very air.

Should I stay hidden? It seemed the safest option, but what if he found me anyway? What was his plan? Did he know where I was, or was this just a routine sweep of the area? is he alone or he has help?

I weighed my options carefully. If I made a run for it now, I might have the element of surprise on my side. But if I misjudged the timing, if I revealed myself too soon, it would all be over in an instant. I know he most likely has weapon, and I don't.

The enemy moved closer, his footsteps echoing like thunder in my ears. I could almost feel his breath, imagine his eyes scanning every inch of the terrain for any sign of movement.

A crazy idea flashed through my mind. What if I fought back? It seemed absurd, given the vast difference in our sizes, but desperation has a way of making the impossible seem plausible. I had speed on my side, and maneuverability. If I could just get to higher ground, maybe I could launch a surprise attack.

But as quickly as the thought came, I dismissed it. Offense was too risky. My best chance was to play defense, to outlast him, to find a way to escape when his guard was down.

Suddenly, the enemy's actions changed. He began moving stuff around. My hiding spot was no longer secure. I had to move, and fast.

In a burst of speed, I darted from my shelter, zig-zagging across the open space. The enemy let out a startled cry, clearly not expecting such bold action. For a moment, hope surged within me. My plan was working!

I scurried up a nearby surface, my legs carrying me faster than I'd ever moved before. The enemy fumbled, trying to track my erratic movements. I could sense his panic, his frustration. This was my chance!

But then, just as victory seemed within my grasp, the enemy did something unexpected. He called for help.

"HERE!!! HERE!!!"

My heart sank. Help. He had called for help. And it was arriving fast.

I heard rapid footsteps approaching, and I knew my time was up. In my last desperate moments, I tried to find a new hiding spot, somewhere, anywhere that might offer safety.

But I was too slow. Too exposed.

The last thing I saw was the bottom of a shoe, descending upon me like the wrath of some vengeful god. Then, darkness.

Monica entered the kitchen, a rolled-up magazine in her hand. She saw her husband, Kabir, standing on a chair, pointing at something on the floor.

"Did you get it?" Kabir asked, his voice still shaky.

Monica bent down, examining the crushed remains on the floor. She sighed, reaching for a paper towel.

"I told you," she said, picking up the dead body of their unwelcome guest, "the best way to kill a cockroach is to smash it with a shoe."

Tom climbed down from the chair, looking both relieved and a bit embarrassed. "I know, I know. I just... it move so fast! And it was so creepy with all those legs."

Monica chuckled, disposing of the cockroach in the trash. "My big, brave husband, undone by a little bug."

As they cleaned up the kitchen, neither of them gave another thought to the tiny life that had just ended. To them, it had been nothing more than a pest, an invader to be eliminated.

But for those few, frantic moments, it had been so much more. A survivor. A fighter. A being driven by the most fundamental instinct of all: the will to live.

In the end, though, it was just a cockroach. And the shoe always wins.

© Harsh Munjal

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